the luminous tapes of a feral world

The night was more eager than calm, and calm it did as i drank with you
we mentioned how the asteroid days of the week were nothing, and
how there was more to our blood than the storm outside, we
made shadow puppets on the walls with our madness consoled
and required no heat from anything but our own days, the rigid colours
of the city, and the trains running eternal, were ghosts before our silence,

I had spent all day cleaning, and even created a prayer, that i was
not so insane as to have made you up, but, your purple pashmina
that i was never able to give you, hung over my balcony door, and
it swallowed the great booming ghosts of the night until morning
each day, when i was at work, and when i would walk home, through
all those maddening rings of azurian fire, where the cars twist like snakes,

Looking below, and into the honking sounds of the highway, the cars scream
offering superstition: their own version of paradise, the lock hard street
and the battles of car jams and punk heavy rain coming now
suffering like a labyrinth, of unheard stigmatas on windshields
turned into a chorus by your scent, and the ways we have
of changing time, into just two workers, with enough gusto, to howl it all away.